


you don't understand (we don't hold hands)

by thymetodance



Category: My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Unrequited Feelings (?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thymetodance/pseuds/thymetodance
Summary: Bert wonders if, maybe, he's pushing his luck.
Relationships: Bert McCracken/Gerard Way
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	you don't understand (we don't hold hands)

**Author's Note:**

> was working on a killjoys gerbert fic but sort of lost the thread on it, wrote this in like one day while trying to find it again. sometimes i think about gerbert and it makes me sad.

Some nights it’s fast, and sloppy, and all such a blur that Bert wakes up in the morning not entirely sure it actually happened. Other nights, it’s slow, agonizingly so, and all too real. 

Tonight is one of those nights.

They’re both fucked up, on more than either would care to confess, but they usually are. Gerard’s touchy, more than usual, as Bert rolls over on top of him; his hands are searing hot where they push up Bert’s ratty T-shirt to splay flat against his stomach. Bert sucks in a breath, and Gerard laughs, soft. 

Bert hates that sound and the way it makes him feel. He leans in to kiss him, then, to make sure he doesn’t do it again. Gerard responds enthusiastically, licking hotly into Bert’s mouth, blunt nails scratching along the line of his spine. Bert’s skin buzzes under the touch.

“Fuck—take this off, please?” Gerard mutters when they break for air, tugging unhelpfully at Bert’s shirt. It’s a slower night, relative to what it’s been before, but Gerard’s still impatient when he’s horny. Bert knows this well enough.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Bert huffs out as he sits up just enough to pull his shirt over his head. Gerard pulls him back down as soon as it’s gone, tossed to some far corner of the room. “Gee—”

Gerard’s smiling against his lips, in a lazy sort of way, tasting like cheap booze and cigarette smoke. His hands wander up to frame Bert’s face, and he just holds him there for a few moments, silent as he stares up at him. Bert wants to squirm away about as much as he wants to stay right there for the rest of his life, let the rest of the world go and fuck itself while he drowns in those horrible beautiful hazel eyes.

But there’s still breath in his lungs when Gerard ducks his head, releases his face to cup him through his jeans, and Bert’s sent spluttering back into reality. 

“Hullo,” Gerard croons as he palms Bert’s already embarrassingly hard cock. It’s a wonder how Gerard’s hands are still so steady, but Bert supposes it doesn’t really matter, not when he’s undoing his fly and slipping his hand into his boxers, whispering desperate, pretty little things all the while.

By the time Bert is pushing into him, they’re both naked and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Gerard grabs a handful of Bert’s hair as he keens high in his throat, hips bucking minutely, and tugs. Bert grunts, bottoming out.

Gerard digs his heels into the small of Bert’s back, but Bert gives him a moment anyway. He could take it rough and fast, easy—they both know this from experience, from rushed, stolen moments in empty tour buses and bathrooms stalls—but Bert wants to savor this, for once, while he has the chance.

(Maybe he’s pushing his luck.)

But Gerard doesn’t complain too much, just stifles a whine against Bert’s neck, worries a mark into the skin there with his pinprick-sharp teeth when Bert finally starts to move.

“Fuck,” Bert groans as he rocks into him, slow and deliberate. Gerard makes a sound like a whimper, like agreement, and turns his head to catch Bert’s mouth in a messy kiss. “Fuck, Gee. _Gerard_.”

Gerard moans wordlessly in response. Bert wishes, between the white-hot blinding pleasure and the dull cold ache in his stomach, that he would say his name.

  
  
  


When Bert wakes, it’s to a mind that’s all too clear despite his splitting headache and Gerard’s face tucked into the junction of his neck and shoulder. His hair’s a mess where it’s fallen into his face and his lashes fan across his cheeks and his breath comes in quiet little puffs against Bert’s skin— 

God, Bert is too sober for this. He raises himself up on his elbows to look around for his cigarettes. Gerard stirs at the movement. _Fuck._

“Morning,” Bert mumbles as Gerard’s eyes blink open. He looks up at him, expression sleep-soft and open, and Bert’s throat closes up. He looks away under the pretense of trying to find his cigarettes; he’s remembered by now that they’re somewhere on the floor by the window, but he pretends to look anyway. 

“M’ head fucking hurts,” Gerard slurs, voice scratchy. He sits up, digging the heel of his palm into his temple and squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, man.” He shakes himself. “What time is it?”

“Uh.” Bert glances at the clock on the bedside table. “Like, 9 AM.”

“Ah, fuck. We have an interview scheduled today, I should probably—” Gerard disentangles himself from the sheets, stretches upwards. Bert pointedly does not let his gaze linger on the pale expanse of skin, or the blue-purple marks marring it. “Should probably get back. Ray’s gonna give me so much shit if I’m late again.” He almost sounds sorry to go. He starts fishing around for his clothes, mumbling under his breath as he locates where each tattered black article had been discarded the night before. Bert props himself up against the headboard, hands folded over his bare stomach, and just watches him.

They should talk about this.

 _This_ —the kissing, and the fucking, and the secrets, and the hazy motel rooms, and the mornings of awful too-clear sobriety—and the way Bert feels, when Gerard laughs soft and just for him, and the way he feels watching him pull on his stupid leather jacket he always wears, the one that’s falling apart from sweat, as he gets ready to leave, and, and, _and._

Bert knows they should talk about it. He’s going to talk about it. They should have talked about it months ago.

“Hey, Gee,” Bert starts, but then he stops himself. Gerard looks so open, so unworried, unburdened, in a way he rarely does anymore. Bert doesn’t want to take that away from him, not now, when there’s nothing wrong. Not ever, really. 

“Hm?” Gerard looks up from tying his shoes, and his eyes are so bright, his eyes so sweet behind his dark hair—

“Nothing, I was just.” Bert waves a hand in a vague gesture. “Kill it out there today. Have fun at your interview. And tell Mikey he still owes me ten bucks. Only reason I haven’t already beaten him up for it is ‘cause I know you’d kick my ass a million times worse if I did.”

Gerard blinks, then grins at him. “You fuckin’ know it. See you later?”

“Later,” Bert affirms. Gerard walks back over to the bed to grab his phone, hesitates, before leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to Bert’s lips. 

“Thank you,” he says when he pulls away. Doesn’t specify what for. Bert watches him turn, pat a hand over his pockets, like he’s checking to make sure he has everything he needs, and walk away. 

The door shuts after him, and Bert is left behind.


End file.
